


More Than A One Second Lesbian Kiss

by westminster



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: 5+1 Things, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, MISTER ABRAMS I NEEDED MORE, let us have a lil clip of queerness with a poc then ripped it away??, so here's more!, the lesbian romance jj abrams was too much of a coward to give us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: that one kiss the rise of skywalker showed us + five more they didn't
Relationships: Larma D’Acy/Wrobie Tyce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	More Than A One Second Lesbian Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i was left mostly dissatisfied and irritated by the 'queer representation' in TROS, but also intrigued. I did some research into the characters involved in that lesbian kiss (wookieepedia, my love, i dedicate this fanfiction to you), and i discovered that the characters, Commander Larma D'Acy and pilot Wrobie Tyce had interesting backstories and I couldn't stop thinking about what could've been if queer characters were employed as more than just tokens for a quick headline!

**1**

Along the edges of Riker's shore were a number of small caverns. It's inhabitants were usually the children of Warlentta, the slightly damp caves perfect for mid-morning picnics and evening games. A group of around six children convened in one now, the perfect size to squeeze them all in but still small enough to dissuade any adult from entering. The eldest was around fourteen, a boy named Kit with a bandana tied around his neck, elected as the leader of the group just because of his ability to spark fires. The children sat around his creation, glowing embers that didn't do much to warm them but lit up each other's faces, keeping the dark at bay. 

A silence befell the group as Kit surveyed each member in turn, sizing them up, finally coming to rest on Larma's features. Her gaunt frame and bold nose were extenuated by the half-light, an almost ethereal figure amongst the plush, plump baby faces. The boy nods. This is a ritual these children know well, heeding the signal and bringing their heads together in a flurry of over-excited whispers. Larma stays quiet, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, determined. 

When the children finally separate, they all have equally large, guilty grins on their faces, giggles echoing around the enclosed space. Kit smirks at Larma, and Larma feels a spike of anger rush through her veins. She shakes it off, dismissing her dislike of the older boy as irrational. He opens his mouth and the circle falls silent.

"We dare you to kiss the most handsome person here."

Larma bites back a sigh, unwilling to show weakness. She's played this game enough to know she has little choice here. She's only thirteen, doesn't know what's handsome and what's not. A few people are glancing at Flick, who's remarkably smug about the situation, leaning forward like he's goading her to kiss him. Larma feels nauseous at the mere thought of pressing her lips to his. Everybody is staring at her so intensely, the panic starting to bubble up. She tries her best to suppress her nerves, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, eager to push the spotlight away from her. Larma doesn't think of the implications, the consequences, she just finds herself staring at tan skin, her eyes skipping over the spatter of blemishes and freckles, taking in the other girl's soft, warm features. Wrobie. Her brain can think of nothing but the word _handsome_ and all she knows is that kissing Wrobie is something she would quite like to do. It is this want, the want to know what that skin feels like under her lips that leads her to lean away from Flick Allbight and towards Wrobie Tyce. 

She brushes her lips against Wrobie's cheek, the other girl as still as a statue. Larma's heart beats rapidly as she waits for the group's reaction. But it's all over far too fast. Before she knows it, she's stopped kissing Wrobie, Wrobie eliciting a little giggle that infects the rest of the children. Kit has already selected his next victim, moving on to the next topic. Most forget the incident immediately, replacing it with the next source of entertainment. Larma tries to sneak glances at Wrobie over the course of the game, scared that if she looked too often she wouldn't have the strength to look away. 

Many nights after, she had come back to that cave and wrapped a blanket around her as she listened to the rhythmic sound of the breaking of waves. She stared at the spot where Wrobie sat, her tiny fingers brushing over her lips. The lips that had touched Wrobie. 

**2**

They're sixteen, best friends, too confident for their own good, waiting for something to happen to them, for some mysterious and exciting wind to sweep them away. Larma sneaks out of her training early, risking a disciplinary action by her master if he finds out. She's a perfect student, only a few months away from graduating with a clean sheet. Still, it's the last thing on her mind as she races through field after field, nearly tripping over her own feet. When she gets to the airbase she's exhausted, sweat dripping down her neck, having to squat to catch her breath. She ties her hair up, a few frizzy blonde strands escaping her clutch, obscuring her view of the planes that fly above her.

Larma runs to Wrobie, Wrobie walks to Larma. Wrobie is solemn, shoulders slouched, unable to meet Larma's gaze. Larma snaps into action, clamps her hands around Wrobie's arms, pulling her in close.

"Who failed you?" Larma snarls, her demeanour changing in an instant, "I'll kill them. Was it Titus?"

"Larma-"

"I bet it was Titus... I'll crush his tiny skull, I bet I could skin him with my viroblade."

"Larma-"

But Larma has already turned around, knuckles white hot as she punches air, a grunt of aggression leaving her lips. Wrobie presses her hands to her mouth, relieved that Larma has her back to her so she can't see the grin that refuses to leave her face.

"What the fuck is wrong with him? He knows nothing about flying, I'll get him fired for this, I swear-"

She breaks into a sprint, headed straight across base to the small offices adjoined to the storage facility. Wrobie can't help but laugh, screaming at Larma to stop. For once, Larma listens, turning back perplexed.

"I passed! Kriff, Larma, I was joking-"

The wrath in her eyes switches to pride, soft pink spilling into her cheeks. Larma looks happier than Wrobie, grin spread so wide across her face that it should hurt but Larma can only feel an overwhelming sense of joy. She runs back to Wrobie, and Wrobie holds out open arms. Larma tackles her to the ground, hitting the grass with a thud. They mock-fight, rolling around as they battle for the upper hand. Wrobie's good, big firm hands pinning down Larma's wrists in an instant. But soon she's no match for her partner: Larma's been training for years, not-so-secret dreams about the Resistance and Skywalkers and a galaxy to fight for. She's nimble, agile. Feinting, then cackling, teasing her friend. Wrobie loosens a little, sharing her partner's joy. That's all Larma needs, taking advantage of Wrobie's relaxed nature, freeing her wrists and flipping her over. Now it's Wrobie on the floor, submissive. Larma's knees dig into Wrobie's hips, faces so close now, mouths wide open, trying to regain their breath. Larma's hair comes loose, falling onto Wrobie's cheek. The moment is charged, drawn out like molasses. They are so close that they can hear each other's heart beat. They wait. Wait for the other to be brave enough, or cowardly enough to move. 

It's Wrobie, in the end. It tends to be. She knows Larma could stay like that forever: fierce and always unwilling to back down. She strokes a hand across Larma's cheek. So full, so warm. Her hands travel lower, trying to capture some of that heat for herself, resting on Larma's hips. So close. But she backs down, resorting to tickling Larma's sides until tears spring from the corners of her eyes. It's infectious. Suddenly, they're both in fits of giggles, and Wrobie thinks nothing has ever been this funny. Larma is so crammed with ecstasy, so much joy for Wrobie that she can't help it. She kisses Wrobie on the lips, a strong decisive action. The kiss is firm, and Wrobie presses back. It lasts for an instant, but the stare they hold each other in afterwards seems much longer. Neither of them are brave enough to face reality, choosing to grin and encase each other in another hug. They don't talk about the kiss after that. Why would they? It's just what friends do, right?

**3**

When Pa hugs her, she can feel his medals dig into her chest. He's brimming with pride at his little girl, the ray of light given to him during a time of great conflict, a miracle. And now she's going away. Larma can tell he's trying not to cry. More than anything it makes her feel uncomfortable. They've talked about this since she was old enough to throw a punch: the dream of going out there, of building upon her father's legacy. He had defended Warlentta for decades and now it was her time to defend the galaxy. There's so much left unspoken between the pair, there always is. Death isn't just a risk but a probability when fighting against the First Order and even though it's painful to let go of the greatest gift he's been given, he knows Larma would've gotten to the Resistance somehow, with or without his blessing.

"Who would've thought it, Larma D'Acy, Leia's prodigy," he says, tone half-mocking, half-sombre.

Larma pulls a face and it reminds him of all the tantrums, all the chaos he's endured and would never have to endure again. He's already missing those early morning arguments. 

"I'm not her prodigy, Pa," Larma says defensively, "She just recruited me. I probably won't even see her when I'm there."

"She recruited you _personally_ , honeybee," he replies, squeezing her cheek affectionately. She scowls at the nickname, more out of ritual than anything else. She's always hated that name but she can't bring herself to really feel annoyed by her father's words. Excitement and nerves have taken over, hands tucked tightly behind her back to hide her clammy palms. Pa gives her a kiss, a small peck on the forehead. Then there's one last glance at each other _, the last maybe ever,_ she considers. She's about to say it but thinks better of herself, _no need to make this harder than it already is._ She leaves without another word.

She's stalling. Deliberately taking the longer route - down the beach then back up rocky trail. It's a tough climb, not one for beginners, so she's completely alone. Larma knows she's got one goodbye left and that it'll be the hardest of all. Looking up at the sun, it's definite she'll be late to see Wrobie. The idea crosses her mind that Wrobie might not wait for her, that she'd be met by an empty space and Larma thinks it might be better that way. 

It's never that easy though and Wrobie is stood there, where they always meet. It aches, to know after all these years that this is the last time she'll come here to meet Wrobie, the last time she'll wait for Larma (because Larma was the late one every time). Loss is already starting to appear. When Wrobie spots Larma, the look on her face is unreadable. Larma thinks she might be angry at first, but Wrobie sweeps her up into the fiercest hug anyway. She clutches Larma hard, and Larma is completely overwhelmed with this sense of love. Pure, undiluted love. 

Larma can't help herself. She knows it has to be now.

"If I never get to see you again," she begins, choking through the syllables. Larma has never cried in front of Wrobie. Not even during Wrobie's sappy holovids, or when she fell off her neighbour's roof and fractured a bone. This time, she doesn't even fight the tears that begin to form, voice turning to a whisper as she faces a battle to get the words out, "I need you to know this. I love you. I think I always have."

Wrobie stares back blankly, mouth in a slack 'O'. Larma hides her eyes with her hands, taking a deep breath in.

"You don't have to say it back, I can take rejection, if you don't like me- I mean, I know you don't like me that way- and it's okay, it really is. 'Cause we can still be friends, and- and, and this doesn't change things between us- It won't!- I guess it's just human nature to want what we can't have and I'm chill about it I really am I swear I-"

She is cut off by Wrobie's lips against hers. They kiss for years, or seconds, maybe. Time doesn't seem very important now. Wrobie's lips are full, plush and Larma thinks she can die happy now. She tastes of mint and cleanliness and everything that's good in the universe. Only when she's forced to, Larma comes up for air, resting her forehead on Wrobie's shoulder, nose digging into her collarbone

"This should be the happiest moment of my life, but it's our last moment together. How can I leave you now, Wrobie?," she grabs Wrobie's palm and kisses it softly, "How do I let this go?"

Wrobie grins, "You don't have to, Larma..."

"You're right! I don't! The Resistance can wait, you're everything now."

"You'd really give up your dream for me?"

"Bee, _you_ are my dream."

She hadn't called Wrobie that since they were teens, and Wrobie thinks she just might melt. The knowledge that Larma loves her this much, would sacrifice the goal she's worked her whole life to achieve - it feels like her heart is engulfed in flames.

"You don't have to, Larma," Wrobie begins, hasn't paused for a moment before Larma's mouth opens, a protest beginning to form on her lips. She's always been so eager, so excessive in everything she did. Wrobie brings a finger to her mouth, slowly dragging her fingertip over Larma's bottom lip. She could stand here forever: watching Larma wait, watching Larma wait for her. But Wrobie isn't a cruel woman, doesn't leave Larma long enough for doubt to creep in. She grins, cradling Larma's cheeks.

"We don't have to be apart because I signed up too. When Leia came to see your father, I enlisted in the Cobalt Squadron. Larma, I'm going to have an A-Wing of my own! We'll be out there together."

"Together," Larma repeats, forming the syllables slowly, like it's the most precious word in the world. Maybe it is. Wrobie kisses her forehead, the same place Pa did. _Everything will be alright._

**4**

“A ship isn’t the greatest place for our wedding,” Larma had said when Wrobie proposed. (Well, she said yes first, and this declaration was preceded by kisses and giggles and a hug that seemed to last forever.) Now, as she turns the corner, Admiral Ackbar beginning to lead her down the aisle, she knows she would not have chosen anything else.

Wrobie gasps when she catches sight of Larma, smile spreading to her eyes as she blinks back tears. Wrobie's suit had been adapted from a spare Command outfit. Someone from a different squadron, a complete stranger, offered to tailor it to fit Wrobie, the material smooth and perfect down her sides. The whole ship has come together for this event. In a warzone, these moments of happiness are cherished by everyone. 

Larma's outfit is awe-inducing, too. She doesn't dress up often: a Resistance base is neither the time nor the place (unless you're Vice Admiral Holdo.) Larma gives Amilyn a grin when she finally manages to tear her eyes from Wrobie. After all, the dress she's wearing is one of hers. They'd never been the closest during her time in the Resistance, Larma easily irritated by Holdo's sometimes condescending tone. That had changed when she'd seen Larma at a loss for what to wear. Amilyn had taken the matter into her own hands, and during their free time they'd meet in her quarters, the dress a secret from Wrobie. Together, they'd re-purposed one of the Vice Admiral's older gowns, cutting the high neck off, dying the dull material a bright white. When Larma first tried it on it was miles too big, tripping up on the train. Amilyn had smiled nonetheless, the first real and full smile Larma had seen her give. Similarly, Leia had taken command when it came to styling her hair. She had sat Larma down, silencing her brief protests by carding fingers through Larma's tough curls. She had pulled the hair into a low bun, the way she had worn it in her childhood. Larma had closed her eyes, drifting to the place between consciousness and sleep, relaxed under Leia's touch. It was maternal in a way Larma hadn't felt for so long and she thought she could cry, probably.

But now she really is, big fat tears bouncing down her face as she clings tightly to Admiral Ackbar's arm. The room is baked in neon white light, light which makes her future wife glow. Larma wonders how she ever thought she'd marry anyone else. Larma doesn't believe in destiny, but this? Here, now? Even she could make an exception. Their guests - most of the crew - were sat in mismatched chairs. Larma spots some from the dining hall, some from people's individual rooms, even one or two from the bridge. The whole thing is makeshift, very DIY, a reminder of the volatile environment they're living in but to Larma and Wrobie, _it feels like home._

As Larma takes her place besides Wrobie, Wrobie can't help but reach out to tuck a stray curl behind Larma's ear. They both turn to General Organa, the officiator. She foregoes the conventional vows, instead offering a speech of her own. She begins with sweet anecdotes about the pair, bringing up memories even Larma's forgotten, both of them amazed by how much Leia has noticed, her words both personal and profound. The pair stumble through their vows, the preciousness of the moment clogging their throats, recitals coming out choked.

"We are gathered here to celebrate love," Leia begins, "which is crucial now, more than ever because love abides in the face of everything. It is the biggest and greatest advantage we have over the First Order. The ability to love and be loved. The relationship between Commander D'Acy and Pilot Wrobie Tyce should be honoured today because their love is a beacon of hope in these dark times."

Wrobie takes Larma's face in her hands and smiles so widely, eyes sparkling as she lets out a half-chuckle before sealing their marriage with a kiss. There are cheers and whistles from the crowd around them but Larma lets it all fade away as she deepens the kiss. She wraps her arms around Wrobie, still refusing to move her lips from Wrobie's. When she breaks contact to look at Wrobie, _really_ look at Wrobie, it feels like it's just them for miles and miles. Today, the First Order seem far, far away.

**5**

Wrobie stares sombrely at Larma. Every time she returns to their quarters she finds her wife sat on the single bed they now share, clutching that medal - the one Admiral Ackbar had given her. She spends hours glaring fiercely at it, nose scrunched up, like she's trying to induce some sort of Jedi mind-trick. Wrobie can't stand it anymore. She kneels in front of Larma. It all feels very claustrophobic, the temporary accommodation they've been allocated is no more than a broom closet. She puts her hands on Larma's knees, warmth from her palms spreading through Larma's skin. Larma does not move her eyes from the medal.

"You can cry," Wrobie says, as clear and as direct as she can be, "you can let it out now, Larma. I'm your wife." 

Wrobie's fingers spread over the medal, covering it with her fist. Larma averts her gaze, but still doesn't look at Wrobie.

"I can't." Larma's voice is even less than a whisper, full of a pain that Wrobie knows she'll never get to the bottom of.

"Talk about it. Talk about him, or you won't be able to move on. His death will haunt you." 

"I should've been there, it should have been me."

"But it wasn't," Wrobie says when Larma finally looks at her. Wrobie sees that she's shaking, teeth clamped to her bottom lip, incredibly tense. Wrobie hardly recognises the woman she's looking at, "It should have. I thought I was doing Admiral Ackbar- _Gial,_ I thought I was doing Gial a favour. Making him proud by taking on his errands. That's why he was on that bridge and I wasn't. That's why he was blown to smithereens by the First Order and that's why I'm sat here now with _so much guilt._ " She presses her forehead against Wrobie's fist, still clutching the medal, "I- I just feel _so_ much, Bee. Too much. It's suffocating me and I hate it." Larma untangles her hand from Wrobie's, tugging it down to her sides, "you wouldn't understand."

There's a bitterness in those last words that takes Wrobie a back, rage washing over her.

"I wouldn't understand? I am the only member of my squadron alive. They died in the battle I should've been fighting. I had to be reassigned to Commander Wexley because all of my friends were annihilated. You're the only person I have left, Larma. The only thing. So don't tell me I wouldn't understand."

They've moved away, backs to each other, both of them facing the wall as they try to find words where there aren't any. Larma is the first one to move, walking over to Wrobie and encasing her in a hug from behind. It's a frustrated action, squeezing Wrobie as hard as she can, trying and failing to release the anger that has been bubbling inside of her. 

_"Honeybee,"_ Wrobie whispers, and suddenly Larma goes limp. Wrobie has to turn to catch her, carrying her to the bed. Larma lies down, propping herself on top of Wrobie, the back of her head resting on Wrobie's chest. Wrobie buries her face deep into her wife's hair, threading her fingers through Larma's, resting their entwined hands on Larma's tummy. When both their breathing has calmed down and comfort has settled in, Larma opens her mouth. She begins telling Wrobie of the first time she had met Gial Ackbar, when she couldn't have been more than eight and yet was allowed a seat at her father's table. The guests he entertained were always legendary, but none so much as Ackbar. She recounts the tales Gial had told that little girl, of the grand monarchs of Mon Cala that he had protected in his younger years. Wrobie listens intently as Larma tells her of Ackbar's meetings with Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala, of his exploits in front of the Jedi Council during the Clone Wars. Larma speaks with such reverence, describing in great detail the bravery and honour engrained in Ackbar's life.

"My brain refuses to believe it. After fighting through the Clone Wars and the Imperial Era, surviving Endor and Jakku, he's really gone. And we're supposed to feel like the lucky ones."

Wrobie sits up so that Larma faces her, holding Larma's face gently. "They'll pay," she says, decisively, "We will defeat the First Order. What was it Leia said? 'Love abides in the face of everything.' That's why we're still here." 

Larma wraps her wife up in a kiss, trying to convey everything she can't express with words. She wants to forget herself as her arms encircle Wrobie, kissing her with as much strength as she has left. Wrobie's hands slide up the back of Larma's shirt, fingers ghosting over the expanse of skin. Larma wants Wrobie to consume her, make her less and less of herself, less and less of this world, these galaxies, shortening herself until she is not an individual anymore, until Wrobie is her and she is Wrobie, lessening the pain she's been burdened with. She'd kill for more moments like these, when war, terror, grief fall from her under Wrobie's touch until it's just them and no one and nothing else. Alone, and yet less lonely than she's ever been. 

**+1**

Larma's heart is pounding right out of her chest. Her back is against a tree because she doesn't trust her legs to hold her weight. Around her, people are cheering and laughing and crying. There's so much joy in the air but Larma is still wrought with misery. Every A-Wing that comes back halts her breath, makes her clench her fists so tight that her palms bleed. Pilot after pilot climbs out, and then is engulfed by a happy, liberated crowd. It makes Larma want to throw up. After everything they've survived together, she doesn't think she could bear to lose Wrobie now.

The universe doesn't keep her in anticipation for long, the crowds parting to reveal _her._ She's never felt relief like this. All that tension, all that waiting, all that fear is wiped away in an instant, replaced by a single thought. Wrobie. It takes a second for her legs to kick in but as soon as they do she's running, running like she's never ran before, her lungs yelling the only name that there ever could have been. Wrobie. There's love, just love flowing through her veins as she hugs Wrobie, happiness settling in. For once, she's actually able to think of a future, to consider a life with Wrobie. It makes her hold her wife even tighter. Her hands move to Wrobie's face, so very alive under her touch. When Wrobie's lips hit hers it's like their first kiss all over again, so much hope and expectation. So much life left to live.

**Author's Note:**

> comments & kudos are greatly appreciated, as I’m thinking about writing a longer piece to go alongside this if it's received well. + happy femslash february!
> 
> find me on tumblr: @mandelsons


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